


Severance

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-15
Updated: 2001-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:58:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Krycek and Mulder come to an understanding, but is it too late?





	Severance

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Severance by Mord

Severance  
by Mord  
Pairing: M/K  
Spoilers: Nothing major except for the obvious Terma/RaTB.  
Disclaimers: My boys are just on loan.  
Summary: Krycek and Mulder come to an understanding, but is it too late?  
Feedback: much appreciated. e-mail to   
Note: Those seeking joyful, fluffy endings need not apply. Originally posted under a different name to a different list.

* * *

Severance  
by Mord

I watched. I waited. I took it all. He'll never be whole again. Neither will I.

Mulder beat me, hated me, craved me, owned me, patterned me in his own image. Bruises of blue, purple, green and yellow all the colours of his need, his loathing.

He separates the fox from his soul. Fox was a child, a boy unable to help his sister or spare her suffering. No solace, no saviour he. Only human. Weak. Mulder is different. Strong (he thinks), quick enough to find the truth (he hopes), just overawed enough to hide from it (I know). For I am the truth he ignores so earnestly.

If he'd only shot me when I turned my back, when the chance was his, kissed me, dismembered my hopeless form. Then I could have coped. But no...he couldn't even raise a fist. After everything I've done for him, done to him. What do I get?

I get to die.

Captured - not a part of me that didn't feel the blade pass by. Each stab the faithless touch of unrequited love. They didn't even bother to ask the usual questions. You see, many things have I destroyed in my soulless nights, my drifting days - but never him. At least, I refuse to hurt him again. He is my weakness and my strength, my joy and my sorrow, my pleasure and my pain, my unrestrained damnation. So long his protector, now the role is as natural, as much me, as the smell of damaged leather on my wretched skin. Fitting they say, that I now lie broken on his couch, darkening blood pooling like gravy around a prime steak.

My visions shred me piece by piece.

Darkness shifts. Shapes approach as I raise my head from the arm of the couch. Aliens? Come to save my soul, save my torn arm. I see it now, witness what one of the figures carries. My arm. (I hear laughter.) My ex-arm. Fingers wriggle their repulsion, the truth that my flesh hated me, needed to be rent away, lest my infectious psyche spread its disease. Complicated movements and the two morph to one. My arm attached to its body (only lent to me) in sync, in time, in sense, in pain. It almost suits it.

My hand slaps my face. As hard as I would punch myself, but not as hard as he likes to.

"Mulder?" I whisper through hysteria born of flesh and need. Shall I laugh myself to death? Idiocy was always a strength of mine.

Another slap. I mumble something only angels hear.

"What?" A voice asks, almost tender in its ministrations.

His voice (the only one which ever made sense) strokes my eardrums, knocks my brain down my throat, nearer to its current ruler. Peril swims between the world and I, shifting lines darken the view.

Potent fingers grasp my jaw, dissolving my flesh, stripping it all away. They leave me bare, exposed. The hand forces me to look, to see him, my Mulder. My saviour. Come too late to keep me here.

I murmur his name through the smog, struggling, aching to touch something inside him. 'Twas not all in vain, he's here, here with me, for me.

I still believe in him.

Pain stings my cheek. Please make it stop. Does he not see my wounds? Does he wish he'd caused them himself? I guess he does.

Just want to sleep now. Place my head on his sharp suited lap; take its deceptive softness and its secrets to the grave.

"Krycek!" he shouts. Tugs my hair, pulls my head up. Not a mean feat considering its abject shortness. I couldn't bear the thought of him not running confused fingers through it long ago, so I severed the anguish. I bet he liked it longer, but wouldn't allow himself even a moment of indulgence. Yes...yes. That's why he isn't touching me, why he never touched me. Apart from the obvious betrayal of course. That and the one which exceeded even his patience, my malice against a woman I'd barely met but knew so well - Scully. An old chestnut to line our bed. He allows me the touch of his fists, of his punches. He may enjoy watching me bleed, twisting my skin, flaying me bare. Perhaps he would wear my skin as a trophy, limed and bated, flawed only by the wounds above my heart.

I am completion. I am his happiness and his despair. Despite my transgressions. Despite myself. But the great god Mulder doesn't need that. Neither do I. Too much is unnecessary, inconsequential.

I can hear him roaring, issuing orders to his precious Scully. She doesn't seem to want to touch me, instead she mutters unconvincingly into her phone as Mulder rants on about an ambulance. I wonder if it's even switched on. No matter, even if I'm dead, he'll still be mine. At the end of my day, she doesn't believe. She never had the faith in him that I do.

I scream a little as he grabs my shoulders, shakes me, spies the vodka they left as it nestles between my legs. It's not enough I have to ruin his couch, I have to do it drunkenly. Is nothing sacred?

He reaches for the bottle. We both know it's too late. Save the body, perhaps, but the mind already too far gone. My pain dissipates. No flesh shall be spared. His hand lingers on the bottle, a crooked wrist rests against me, takes a feeling chance as my consciousness plays its last.

Some things just aren't meant to be.

The bottle moves; his warmth vanishes. Glass shatters against the wall like hail over a bleached sea. Each splinter fights to be the first to fall. What patterns Mulder could make on me with them. I'm sure I smile.

Hands on my shoulders, shaking. My head flops back and forth, my neck refuses to hold. Would Mulder still touch me if they took that away? Cut it off. Would my brains sprinkle like the glass?

Then...

"Krycek?" He sounds worried - a barely controlled shriek in his tone. How sweet! "What the fuck happened to your arm?"

He hasn't seen me in the light since Russia.

Hands scramble, desperate to remove my fading jacket, my warm, flaking leather. He holds me, removes it, and sees what used to be my wholeness. Oh, my God. No sound, just the words moving his mouth. I can hear Scully grinning from here. He knows. Recognises what he did to me. A smile washes me clean. The guilt and satisfaction on his face are almost worth dying for.

Almost...I wanted him before I died. Just the once.

His body slumps, his hands take his weight, my chest theirs. His forehead dips, touches me. I've seen that look before, given it a few times. The one that says I want to touch you but I'll hate myself if I do.

His tears dampen my chest. I want to ask why, but there's really no need. I know the truth and he never allowed himself to wholly believe, to put his stricken fate in my shredded hands.

Flesh pushes me aside so he can sit. He sniffs. I laugh. The pain reminds me I'm alive. Alive and in his arms, where I was born to be. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand, like a kid watching his favourite toy being torn form his yielding hands.

The beating again, not ashamed to punch a slab of dying flesh. My corpse will look pretty, bruised, forever infected with his pain. His art will make me immortal.

"You bastard," he screams, then quieter. "Don't go...not yet...we never had the time." I swear the walls rattle at the intensity. They sway and shimmy in the distance, in the dark where death seduces life. For a moment I regret that I'll never see this again but realise I can take his abused soul with me to rot at my side in a filthy hole. "Don't leave me...you're the only one who knows." He wipes his nose on a sleeve speckled with my blood. Eyes red rimmed like a demon in flight, like the demon that stole my arm. He's wrong, I'm not the only one, just the only one he trusts. A pity he'll never see the sights I have to show him.

Blackness descends on me. I'll just close my eyes for a little while. My fingers find his face, touch his lips, and grasp his hair a little too hard.

"Alex?"

Soft, as if the very act would strike me down. My head falls to one side. I'm so tired, so cold. If only he would warm me. Then the moment comes. I waited an eternity for this. His damned lips brush against my cheek, like a drooping flag against its pole.

I hear her feet on the hardwood floor, irregular as my slowing heart.

The air changes, contact shifts. I think he strokes me. A sniffle in my ear, a draft on my neck as he buries his face in my sodden hair, pulling me closer than his own skin.

"Mulder." I manage my mantra one last time.

"Fox," he whispers, "my name is Fox."

End

  
Archived: April 04, 2001 


End file.
